Read Online Splendor by Brenda Joyce - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brenda Joyce
Tags: Women Authors
Ads: Link
quarry was across the street, still running away. His hands found his hips. He was not a fool.
The little spy, inept that he was, was no he. He was a she.
He began to smile. How very amusing, indeed.
And then he began to button up his jacket. An instant later he was also crossing the street—and flagging down a hansom.
Carolyn dashed inside the bookshop. She instantly saw that her father was with a customer, and she regretted her haste. George looked up and his eyes went wide. Carolyn had already recognized the customer; he was an elderly gentleman fond of Gothic novels. She sucked down her breath
and gave both men her back, pretending to browse one of the stacks. With a shaking hand she pulled down Troilus and Criseyde by Chaucer.
What a close call!
She had yet to recover from having been face-to-face with Sverayov, a mere pane of glass separating them. His expression of fury remained engraved upon her mind. She had not a doubt that if she had not reacted immediately by fleeing, he would have broken that window and done bodily damage to her.
Carolyn was wet with sweat. She had walked a dozen blocks until she'd found a hansom to take her home. And she was still trembling.
And to make matters worse, had Sverayov caught her, he'd have been within his rights to press charges against her for trespassing. Carolyn had never precipitated such a disaster before. But never before had she tried to spy on one of her subjects in such an intimate fashion.
The bell over the front door tinkled. Carolyn turned, and trying to appear disinterested, she watched Mr. Ames leave the store. When the door was closed solidly, she faced her father, her eyes lighting up. "You will not believe what has happened!"
George came over to her. "Your goatee is askew."
Carolyn reached for her scraggly beard, and realized a part of it was hanging off. She flushed. No wonder people had been giving her odd looks.
"Perhaps you should use more glue next time," George said fondly. His eyes twinkled.
Carolyn sighed and yanked off the small beard, shoving it into the pocket of her tan coat. "His wife almost died last night."
"Whose wife?" George asked, reaching for her bicome. He adjusted that, too.
"Sverayov's," Carolyn said impatiently. She was still stunned over what she had learned. And she could imagine the scene two evenings before—the prince arriving home, disheveled from his love affair, only to find his wife at
death's door. Had he felt any remorse? How could he live with himself? And she had lost the child. Their child. He had not appeared to be grieving. He had been calmly dining as if nothing at all had happened. What kind of unfeeling man was he? She shuddered. His bronzed face loomed in her mind. She couldn't help wishing he were scarred or pockmarked or something.
"Is that where you were?" George frowned. "Carolyn, I don't want you pursuing the Russian. Leave him alone."
Carolyn stiffened, immediately confused. Her father's tone had been unusually sharp. And although George was her father and she was only eighteen, he had always treated her as an independent thinker—as an adult. He had never ordered her around, not even when she was a child. He had always given her choices and allowed her to make up her own mind. Yet now his words had sounded suspiciously like a command. ' 'Why should I leave him alone? He embodies all that I stand against. Immoral extravagance, self-absorption, self-indulgence, and the tyranny of the few over the vast majority. For goodness' sake. Papa, Russia is a country of serfs.''
George sighed. "And is that Sverayov's fault?"
"He is an accomplice," Carolyn said firmly. "And I can not respect a man who comes to this country during a time of war, on official state business, and then behaves as a carefree cad, as if nothing were wrong in the world! He should be setting an example for us, and for his own people, don't you agree? Instead he is carousing all night while his wife lies on her deathbed."
"Not
The little spy, inept that he was, was no he. He was a she.
He began to smile. How very amusing, indeed.
And then he began to button up his jacket. An instant later he was also crossing the street—and flagging down a hansom.
Carolyn dashed inside the bookshop. She instantly saw that her father was with a customer, and she regretted her haste. George looked up and his eyes went wide. Carolyn had already recognized the customer; he was an elderly gentleman fond of Gothic novels. She sucked down her breath
and gave both men her back, pretending to browse one of the stacks. With a shaking hand she pulled down Troilus and Criseyde by Chaucer.
What a close call!
She had yet to recover from having been face-to-face with Sverayov, a mere pane of glass separating them. His expression of fury remained engraved upon her mind. She had not a doubt that if she had not reacted immediately by fleeing, he would have broken that window and done bodily damage to her.
Carolyn was wet with sweat. She had walked a dozen blocks until she'd found a hansom to take her home. And she was still trembling.
And to make matters worse, had Sverayov caught her, he'd have been within his rights to press charges against her for trespassing. Carolyn had never precipitated such a disaster before. But never before had she tried to spy on one of her subjects in such an intimate fashion.
The bell over the front door tinkled. Carolyn turned, and trying to appear disinterested, she watched Mr. Ames leave the store. When the door was closed solidly, she faced her father, her eyes lighting up. "You will not believe what has happened!"
George came over to her. "Your goatee is askew."
Carolyn reached for her scraggly beard, and realized a part of it was hanging off. She flushed. No wonder people had been giving her odd looks.
"Perhaps you should use more glue next time," George said fondly. His eyes twinkled.
Carolyn sighed and yanked off the small beard, shoving it into the pocket of her tan coat. "His wife almost died last night."
"Whose wife?" George asked, reaching for her bicome. He adjusted that, too.
"Sverayov's," Carolyn said impatiently. She was still stunned over what she had learned. And she could imagine the scene two evenings before—the prince arriving home, disheveled from his love affair, only to find his wife at
death's door. Had he felt any remorse? How could he live with himself? And she had lost the child. Their child. He had not appeared to be grieving. He had been calmly dining as if nothing at all had happened. What kind of unfeeling man was he? She shuddered. His bronzed face loomed in her mind. She couldn't help wishing he were scarred or pockmarked or something.
"Is that where you were?" George frowned. "Carolyn, I don't want you pursuing the Russian. Leave him alone."
Carolyn stiffened, immediately confused. Her father's tone had been unusually sharp. And although George was her father and she was only eighteen, he had always treated her as an independent thinker—as an adult. He had never ordered her around, not even when she was a child. He had always given her choices and allowed her to make up her own mind. Yet now his words had sounded suspiciously like a command. ' 'Why should I leave him alone? He embodies all that I stand against. Immoral extravagance, self-absorption, self-indulgence, and the tyranny of the few over the vast majority. For goodness' sake. Papa, Russia is a country of serfs.''
George sighed. "And is that Sverayov's fault?"
"He is an accomplice," Carolyn said firmly. "And I can not respect a man who comes to this country during a time of war, on official state business, and then behaves as a carefree cad, as if nothing were wrong in the world! He should be setting an example for us, and for his own people, don't you agree? Instead he is carousing all night while his wife lies on her deathbed."
"Not
Similar Books
